519 Eighth Avenue
by Elm Treetree
Summary: AU where Dean is a writer and Cas is a yoga teacher what and they re meet in NY and romance ensues, blah blah blah. I don't know where I get this shit guys. I'm hoping it'll eventually be multi-chaptered, though. Mild language but that's about it.


If there was one thing that Dean Winchester hates more than anything, it's all that zen, inner peace bullshit.  
Okay, so maybe he doesn't hate it with a burning passion, but it isn't for him, and apparently it was extremely difficult to get that point across to his brother.  
"Dean, you need to relax, man. You're way too stressed out."  
"Sam, there is no way in hell you're getting me to take a yoga class. Never. Gonna. Happen."  
"Come on, trust me on this one. Anna used to teach sort of... mini classes during exams when we were at Stanford together. She's great, you'll like her a lot. She teaches at 519 Eight Avenue, 12th floor if you're interested at all."  
"Nope. Wait. Is she hot?" He could nearly hear Sam rolling his eyes through the phone.  
"...Yeah, sure, I guess. More your type than mine, probably. I'm telling you, take the class, it'll help a lot."  
"Sorry but no."  
"Dean-"  
"I'm hanging up now." Click. Sam might be right about the stress, but not in his wildest dreams is he ever going to convince Dean to take a fucking yoga class. Yoga is for girls... and the occasional gay dude. And Dean Winchester is straight. Well, for the most part. So maybe there've been a few bits along the way that might put him into the 'not-so-hetero' category, but now was not the time to add sexuality crisis to the list of things he needed to think about. That was a while ago, anyway.  
He turned back to the laptop that he'd been typing on shortly before Sam's phone call, and deleted a few lines of dialogue that didn't make sense.  
"This is crap," he muttered to himself. Delete, delete, delete. To be honest, he'd never been the one you would have expected to become a writer. Sam was the brainy one, with all the books and law school and shit, but alas, Dean had found something that he was good at in the most unlikely of places. Or at least, his friends told him he was good at it. He had yet to prove it to the real world, but he was working on it. If he could just finish this damn draft.  
Dean had spent the past few years on the road, collecting as much information as possible for the novel he'd wanted to write since high school. To be honest, he hadn't really needed all that much time, but he liked traveling across the country, blasting Zeppelin, sleeping in motels and eating at diners and roadhouses. He'd never admit it either, but he'd particularly enjoyed the few weeks that Sam took off from school to travel with him every few months or so. Now that Sam had graduated and moved in with his now-fiancee Jessica, they didn't see each other quite as often, but Dean would end up around where they lived sometimes, and then they'd catch up.  
However, he was currently sitting in a motel somewhere near Florence, Kentucky, alone and frustrated out of his mind. Sam knew he'd be driving up to New York next week, which was why he recommended that stupid yoga class that was apparently taught by his friend from school.  
He began typing again, trying to figure out how a conversation between his protagonist (a traveling salesman named Andrew) and a particularly rude coffee-shop owner might go. Maybe the entire idea for this scene was stupid. Maybe he should have just had Andrew stay with Caroline... no, no, he had to keep the plotline the way it was. He was planning on having the two meet again by accident and get back together near the end of the book. That way, Andrew could finally settle down the way he'd always wanted. If Dean screwed that plot up, it would ruin the whole book. He had to keep going.  
Sighing, he closed the laptop and decided he'd work on it later. He thought about calling up his friend Chuck (also a writer—he was working on a series about two brothers who fight monsters or some shit, not exactly Dean's area but an interesting idea) for advice, but decided to just get some sleep. Maybe he'd feel better in the morning and get out some actual material. Or maybe he should try to take some time off and relax... NOT yoga though. That was still out of the question.

He made it to New York a week later. Honestly, cities weren't Dean's favorite. He much preferred the rural areas, small towns and fields like where he grew up in Kansas. It wasn't that he particularly _wanted _to be reminded of his fairly shitty childhood, but it produced a kind of nostalgia that felt peculiarly nice. Anyway, while he didn't love all the noise and crowded streets, he needed to stop in New York if he wanted to realistically describe it. While he waited for a cab, he started thinking up ideas for how the encounter between Andrew and his old friend Jeremy would go. If he goes by his outline, they should run into each other at a bus stop and start talking for hours, catching up on each other's lives, but that seemed a little too... romantic, as opposed to a platonic friendship sort of thing. The problem was that Dean hadn't hung out with any guys for a while now, since it's sort of hard to make friends when you're constantly on the road. The closest he'd come to that was going out for a few drinks with Sammy last time he'd been in San Fran, and that wasn't the same scenario.  
He was still contemplating how his characters might start up their conversation when he realized that he'd been standing there for a while and still hadn't gotten in a cab. Right. He quickly hailed one down and jumped in.  
"Where to?"  
"Uh," he realized that he'd completely forgotten where he was planning on going, so he said the first thing that came to his head. "519 8th Ave." Shit. Wasn't that the yoga place Sam had said on the phone? Why the hell did he even _remember _that? And now he was on his way there, completely unintentionally. He was about to tell the driver to turn around, but he realized that they were already on 8th and didn't feel like bothering. If he was already there, he might as well just, you know, take a look... around the neighborhood. Yeah, that worked. He paid and got out of the cab, and decided to take a walk around the block. He was about to turn a corner when he saw him.  
The rumpled, sticking-up-everywhere dark hair and that same, _stupid _tan overcoat. What. The. Fuck. So okay, one night of his life comes back to haunt him in New York city while he's in the midst of writing a book. Sounds like a stupidly bad romance novel. Wait. Romance novel? Who said anything about romance?  
Before he's aware of what he's doing, Dean's calling out to the guy like he's known him for years. The man turns on his heel, obviously not used to being talked to by random people on the street. His head is tilted and he's squinting, as if he's trying to analyze something on Dean's face.  
"Do... do I know you?" He asks abruptly.  
Dean shakes his head quickly. "No! No, never mind, I uh... I thought you were someone else, heh, it's nothing, forget it." So he doesn't even remember him. It figures, they were drunk, it was a one-night thing, nothing else to talk about there. Awkward. Ok, better leave now, Dean. Let's go, move your legs. "Wait, are you going into that building there?"  
The dark-haired man (who's name, if Dean remembers correctly, is Castiel which is weird because that sounds like some sort of fucking angel and Dean is pretty sure that this dude is anything but holy) nods. "Yes, yes, I teach there. Up on the 12th floor. Why do you ask?"  
"Oh." Well look at that. Dean clears his throat. "I thought the class was taught by an Anna."  
"Yes, that's correct. She's out today however. I'm teaching the open adult class." He tilts his head to the side again, "Why? Are you interested in the class?"  
No, of course Dean's not interested, but Castiel's offering so nicely and it's not all that expensive and they're already standing there and talking and really it would be rude to refuse...  
And somehow, Dean finds himself saying yes to a goddamned yoga class, swearing to himself that Sammy is never, _ever _finding out about this.


End file.
